by Anil Menon
‘It’s strange,’ Sawai grunted. ‘The dirty frames have no connection with the other frames. It’s as if the director inserted them to screw with our heads. But it’s quite exciting. It’s like someone is whispering dirty things in the middle of a classical concert.’
‘Aiyyo, the poor girl,’ said Kannagi. It was a dream sequence and Saya, decked out in a chiffon yellow sari, was getting royally massaged by Durga’s belly.
‘Let’s turn it off,’ said Sawai. ‘I’m tired.’
Though it had been a long day and she was tired as well, sleep wouldn’t come. The movie hadn’t been such a hot idea. It had undermined her confidence in Mir’s taste. It had undermined her confidence in her own self. She mentally listed her kolam pieces, trying to see each one as a stranger might see it. Boy, was that a waste of brain cycles. In matters of personal taste, there was no point arguing. It was all about the goose bus, as Durga used to say. Whatever that meant. Why would geese need buses when they could fly? Perhaps she’d misheard Durga. It was too late to ask him now. If Mir asked what she had thought of his movie, she’d tell him the truth. Not the truth of the work, which probably didn’t have any, but her honest opinion.
She would be twenty-eight tomorrow.
John Liu had been right to book his tickets. He wasn’t doing much good here. But the thought was still depressing. Liu got an aspect of her no one else at the department did. His leaving made her world smaller. Scale. The fab-jab clubs needed to find their feet. No cult of personality. She had to read Kalai’s paper. The kid showed real promise. She had to do something for him.
Sawai had a government job. Wow.
Kannagi closed her eyes, feeling tired. She thought of her head, or perhaps she thought she was thinking about her head, resting against the rough cotton, a reticulated fabric of quantum fields, self and not-self, infinite interlocked kolams, it was all so fleeting, and there was so much to do, what does time mean, O Gods and Goddesses of my ancestors, and just when it seemed no answer would be forthcoming, her dreaming mind found and wrapped itself around the white bright cylindrical magnificence of the Bajaj Majesty geyser unit, fifteen billion light years in the making, with one year warranty.
15
(TANAZ HAS BEEN DRIVING IN AND AROUND HAPUR IN A COMPANY-issued sedan all day. She looks happy.)
God, I love being Tuglaq. Assistant Site Manager, ten percent increment. I have twenty field execs under me. Twenty! I’m in charge of the Jadoo’s distribution in the northern part of the NCR territory. My responsibilities are all managerial now. The downside is I’ve been living in Hapur for almost three weeks. Poor pati-dev. He’s really missing me.
I hired my own team! Fifteen of my people are transfers from other projects, but I selected them. And I got to hire the other five. I’ve interviewed people before but the ultimate decision was always somebody else’s. This time it was entirely up to me and if I picked the wrong person, my team would sleep with the consequences. Your typical misarranged marriage, basically. (Laughs.)
I interviewed a total of thirty people. I would have called more candidates, but Supriya-ji began to make noises. Four of the hires were easy decisions, these candidates had real work experience. But the last slot gave me some trouble. I had almost decided on a Jain girl, Dhansari. I liked Dhansari’s attitude. Go-getter type, smart. Cheerful.
I was looking for a good Config Specialist. It’s a software Q&A position but not hard-core technical. Basically, the person is responsible for correctly loading all the hazaar applications onto the tablets. It’s all automated, but for us managers that just means the hire has to be even more reliable and trustworthy.
(Tanaz takes a call. As she speaks, her accent subtly shifts, it becomes more Americanized).
That was an American friend of mine. She’s freaking out. The Lokshakti arrested her husband some months ago. He’s a prof, a Geology prof I think. She’d mentioned he studies petrified rocks or some such thing. Why would a geologist be arrested? I don’t believe it. I mean, there must be more to the story. There must be a reason. Or it’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll speak to pati-dev, I’m sure he’ll take care of it.
Anyway, about the Config Specialist. Dhansari had a Master’s in electrical engineering from Coimbatore University. I asked her: don’t you think you’re over-qualified? And she says, ma’am, that won’t be a problem when I get promoted. I had to laugh. She said she liked working with people, she was hoping to work on GIS systems one day, all that jazz.
I asked her tough questions. Give one situation where you have broken a rule and why? If you had to choose between delivering an incomplete assignment on time versus completing it but missing the deadline, what would you pick? We weren’t going to use her as a field officer, but just in case, I had her do a survey—I used the study we did for La Senza, a lingerie company. She asked me the survey questions and I gave her all sorts of nonsensical answers— for example, when Dhansari asked what I was looking for in a bra, I said they should taste good—but she wasn’t fazed one bit. Total bindaas karamdas.
(Tanaz takes a call. She sounds mildly bemused. Yes, Shabari. No, Shabari. Use your initiative Shabari.)
So here I was, about to tell Dhansari that she was hired when Supriya-ji calls me out of the blue and says she was sending someone special, a woman by the name of Shabari Khargane, and that I was to give her the Config job.
Just like that. I was upset. But what could I do? I simply didn’t have the budget to hire both Dhansari and Shabari. I was really upset. But Supriya-ji had gone to bat for me and she sort of hinted she didn’t have a choice either.
This woman Shabari, she must have some serious influence. She was a personal secretary to Anand-ji’s wife. Her CV said she had an MCA degree but it was from some no-name place and quite recent. She’s much older than me. She hinted there was some medical problem with her son, but to be honest, I was less than interested.
Shabari has a good personality, but there is this negative vibe as if she carries too much baggage. Even if she hadn’t been forced on me, I might have given her a chance. Not as Config Specialist, but something else in QA or maybe in documentation. I know how tough it can be for older women to re-enter the job market. But I didn’t like having her forced on me. I told her she’d have to work hard to prove herself and that if she couldn’t perform I would find someone else. I will too. I don’t know whether any of it registered; she was kinda blank.
The worst part was having to look Dhansari in the eye and tell her we would revert in due course.
Earlier, I would have said: the system sucks, it’s wrong, it’s corruption, merit should be rewarded. Correct. One hundred percent correct. But if life were fair, who would need managers? It’s my job to make the best of an unfair situation. Dhansari will find another job; she’s good at what she does. I’ll manage with Shabari.
And chalega bhai, it all comes around anyway. Take my American friend. This time I can use my influence to help her. But I don’t understand it. Why is Vyas’s department going around arresting authors? My friend sounded frantic, poor thing. She has no idea what’s happened to her husband. How is it possible? Even if he published something critical, so what? This is not Pakistan.
When Vyas took over the department, he was so excited. Normally pati-dev hits the shower first thing when he gets back from work, but that evening, I remember him pacing round and round our living room, clad in only a bathroom towel, and telling me all the changes he was going to make. He had so many bullet points, he ran out of fingers. CA would fund artists, create new foundations, reform laws, collect industry data, all that jazz. As far as the arts was concerned, the department was going to be its angel. I’ll never forget my angel standing in a towel in the middle of our living room, arms spread like wings. But this doesn’t sound anything like what he had in mind. He intended to do good. The Lokshakti has done a lot of good. Why are people trying to kill Victor-uncle? I don’t understand it.
I understand my friend’s pain though. I felt the
same pain once.
(Tanaz pulls over, steps out with her laptop bag, and disappears into a makeshift office building. She returns some two hours later.)
Hey, where did the sun go? Guess it’s time to get some dinner. Whew! The project’s going well, touch wood. Only, some of the panchayat members aren’t happy. They’re worried the Jadoo will spread western ideas. I sincerely hope so. These jokers got married off at thirteen and they’re telling me about wrong ideas? Doesn’t really matter. The youngsters all want the Jadoo. Pillai’s company made this game, it’s called Bhagyalakshmi Ko Bachao. You have to save the goddess of luck from the Rakshas, Garibi and Nirasha. You win, you get to play champs from other villages. There’s lots of small prizes to win, and the overall winner gets lots of goodies. It’s a cool idea. The rurals play the game, they learn how to use the Jadoo. Maybe this digital access shit isn’t such a bad idea after all.
There’s so much to get done before the launch. The Jadoos are always breaking down. The software’s fine, but there are lots of hardware glitches. Everything has to be cheap, cheap, cheap. Problem is that some of the plastic components melt in the heat. Anand-ji sent a memo saying that’s fine; we shouldn’t mind if things break down as long they’re repairable. That way, we’ll also get an industry that can fix these tablets. There’s a super-managerial khopdi for you. But sir, what if a Jadoo breaks down during the launch demo? Supriya-ji says, tell me it won’t happen, Tanaz.
It won’t happen. But it means even longer hours for my team. I know they have families; what to do? I don’t force them to stay. Look at Shabari. She never stays a minute past 4:45. Okay, she doesn’t want to miss her five o’clock train and she has a sick kid apparently. But we all have families. Why am I here in Hapur, sleeping alone? Arre Madam, at least work late once in a while. But no, she’s out the door exactly at 4:45. It irritates me. It irritates everybody. It’s bad for morale. I did her a favour; Anand-ji did her a favour, I don’t gossip, but there are some weird stories about his wife, whatever—Madam acts like we hired her to be a mommy. She doesn’t have the proper team spirit.
It’ll all work out. I think my team will do just fine. Ratna is good at process, so I let her plan the registration. Once Shabari becomes familiar with the Ant make-tool, I will let her handle the app loading. Karthik comes across as the ideal boy, so I sent him last week to get the panchayat on our side. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. Why? They loved him but they didn’t respect him. Oh well, live and learn.
(Tanaz takes a call.)
‘Vyas! Did you—Great! Thanks so much. I’ll tell my friend to see you on Wednesday. Yah, I know it’s awkward for you. But honey-bunny, this is important, right? Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a habit of it or anything… Yah, one more week here… Me too. Bye.’
Okay, another item off the checklist. Vyas promised to help. He said it’s probably just a huge misunderstanding. Foreigners, security, all that jazz. I’m not a child. I understand how it is. I need to send a list of all the hardware issues to Supriya-ji. It’s going to be a long night for Tuglaq.
(Tanaz suddenly leans forward, rests her forehead on the steering wheel, closes her eyes. Eventually, she raises her head, drinks from the water-bottle, takes a deep breath and restarts the sedan.)
#
While my job like most jobs has its share of unpleasant tasks, I’m not expected to endure cringing appellants. Those in need seldom find their way to me, partly because they are unaware of my existence, partly because my department may not exist, but mostly because locating my office is a non-trivial task.
For that matter, locating any Indian government office that actually does any governing is a non-trivial task. The buildings that appear on Google Maps, tour guides, Government of India publications, TV news reports and so on are more like movie theme parks. They cater to expectations and desires. Government should be serious: the buildings all look very serious. Government should protect: the buildings are all in concrete. Government should be rational: the buildings are all Platonic solids surmounted by Platonic solids. The point is not to simulate reality. The point of a simulacrum is to enable recognition. ‘Aha!’ says the mind. ‘This is exactly what I expected.’ Reality is often inconveniently unrecognizable. The simulacrum’s ability to go from being a copy to something more useful than the original was brought home forcefully to me when Tanaz and I visited the United States. It was our first real getaway as a couple. I called her Mrs Vyas and she called me Mr Chikliwala. We burbled, gyred and gimbled. We annoyed our fellow passengers.
But I was also curious to study the American in his native habitat, and she was curious, I think, to see if she could pass for one.
The main thing that surprised me about the United States was the remarkable similarity with India. The same preening self-satisfaction, the same narcissistic disinterest in the world, the same multiplicity of idols, and the same passion for violence, masked with the same hypocritical claims to a superior morality. It gave me a lot of hope; there’s no reason why our toilets couldn’t be raised to the same superior standards.
Tanaz liked the place too. She observed how Americans were either massively obese or really jhakaas. Vyas, did the Mayflower refuse to take ugly people or what?
I remember in particular one humid morning at the Loews Portofini Bay Hotel. We had just made love. I was lying in bed watching Mrs Vyas, and quite content. She’d been relaxed, one leg crossed to rest on the other, a folded arm supporting her head while the other hand played with her sole claim to modesty, a black pearl necklace. I had to ask what others must have wanted to know:
‘Why do you love me, chakli? Why me, in particular?’
I was pleased she took her time to answer. Had she chosen comfort, she would either have had an answer ready or let the unconscious drum up the first plausible reason. We both knew she had many options; Tanaz was desirable, was much desired. I could easily conceive myself a cuckold.
‘I was thinking about love,’ she said. ‘How come I love anything? How come I love India? I didn’t know how I much loved the chutiya place until I got here. I’m homesick, I can’t wait to get back home. Why is that place home and not this hotel room? How come I’ll do anything for you but nothing for our waiter even though he is hot? I mean, he’s seriously hot.’
Yes, I got it. ‘So why?’
‘Why do I need a reason to love?’
I believe I began to understand her, truly love her, in that moment. I was pleased and hid it with a thoughtful look; she was even more pleased at her brilliant answer and hid it with a pleased expression. For some time we were content to lie there quietly, until we both began to laugh.
Here we were, in a room at the Loews Portofini Bay in Florida, the view fully delivering what the hotel had promised in its glossy brochures: ‘Experience the sights and sounds of the Italian Riviera.’ We had reached an authentic understanding of ourselves in one of the most inauthentic places on earth. I doubt any ashram or retreat could have done better. Its inauthenticity didn’t matter to me one bit. Indeed, the pretence we were lolling on the Italian Riviera was so exact (brochure: ‘cobblestones and outdoor cafes’, ‘festive harbor piazza filled with Italian sports cars and Vespa scooters’), the effort was conducted so transparently, so good humouredly, and with such ludicrous faith in words, we would’ve probably found the actual Riviera quite unconvincing.
In short, the actual is actually quite a poor simulacrum of itself. Foreigners who want to visit the ‘actual’ India would be better off waiting for the Loews Corporation to get around to faking one.
Apparently, the Italian-American lady seated in front of me hadn’t been willing to wait.
She had married Sam Adhamo, an Indian man, a professor of English Literature at Delhi University who’d done his thesis on gestures of eroticism and death in Petrarchan and post-Petrarchan poetry, a work especially noted for its penetrating analysis of the tortoises in Marvell’s Upon Appleton House. I hadn’t read the work but assumed, perhaps naively, it wo
uld offend no one except rival scholars and a few minority tortoises.
They’d met on a traghetto, a kind of gondola taxi, in Venice, Italy. It is necessary to be specific because there is a superior copy of Venice, the Venetian in Las Vegas, which offers a cleaner Grand Canal and more comfortable rides.
She had been on a Ford Foundation trip to write a book on the life of Benito Mussolini’s mistress, Margherita Sarfetti. Her interest in Margherita had originated in a family legend which claimed that her maternal grandfather had had a romantic dalliance with the art-loving, socialism-loving, Venice-loving, journalism-loving and Benito-loving Margherita. Her Indian professor had been in Venice to present a paper—ultimately a chapter that couldn’t be included in the thesis—on Petrach’s Canzoniere and its representation of the limitations of representationalism.
They’d met on a traghetto, as I’ve said, which meant they had met standing, and it must have been a memorable meeting, since a traghetto ride, according to the Wiki, usually doesn’t last for more than five or six minutes.
What did he say? What did she say? Why did they fall in love? They had very little in common. His photo is in the file. Even allowing for the rigours of imprisonment, he is not a particularly impressive specimen. One can easily imagine forgetting his name, outrunning him for a cab, overcharging him for fish, laying claim to his pickles in the communal fridge (how impotently upset he’d be).
In contrast, she came across as bold, brassy, full of orgasms. She’d probably make an excellent mistress. No one would ever dream of stealing her pickles. She had to be these things, for theirs was a storybook romance and in story-logic, opposites attract. After all, why have two identical characters? I could almost see an editor inscribing in the margin: merge husband and wife into one character?